


sun's up guns up

by Snowsheba



Category: Aveyond, Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mentions of alcohol, Mentions of drugs, Panic Attacks, Poor John, although they are all platonic relationships, established relationships - Freeform, he is getting nothing he deserves in life, my eyes are burning, the gta and aveyond crossover you never knew you needed, why did i think this was a good idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowsheba/pseuds/Snowsheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s the thing about Rhen Pendragon and Lars Tenobor:</p><p>When they’re together, you get the hell out of their way. <em>Fast</em>.</p><hr/><p>In which Rhen and Lars are professionals in their line of business. It just so happens that their line of business includes smuggling drugs, killing gang members, and stealing a lot of cars – and <em>John did not sign up for this</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sun's up guns up

**Author's Note:**

> There is not a lot of car stealing in this fic, unfortunately. Or killing of gang members. Or drug smuggling. Mostly it's about a group of chaotic neutral vigilantes going after the baddies.
> 
> Also: some of the transitions may seem disjointed and sudden. This is purposeful. (Partly because I don’t want to go back and make them smoother, partly because I was trying something different and have a little more crack involved.) (No, not the drug.)

Here’s the thing about Rhen Pendragon and Lars Tenobor:

When they’re together, you get the hell out of their way. _Fast_.

* * *

It’s an unspoken secret that the mayor of Aveyond doesn’t control the city – not for a second. You want things to happen, sure, you can go through the legal offices and petition and protest and what have you. It’d take them a year to put your plan or bill or whatever on a politician’s table, but you’d get there eventually and you’d probably even get the majority of the city’s support as you lobbied for another five years without any change. Six years later you can rejoice when your plan or bill or whatever is finally passed: congratulations, you, you just made it heroin illegal. (Again.)

Give it two days. You’ll end up mysteriously dead in your apartment and your farcical ideal will vanish like it never even existed.

Because, you see, if you want things _done_ , you go to Rhen and Lars.

* * *

Some people learned this the hard way. No one really talks about what happened to the Darkthrops after the news died down.

(They’re still hunting Ahriman’s Daevas after all this time, though. So the rumors go.)

* * *

Rhen, as a person, is a slight woman who’s barely in her twenties. Her lavender eyes are sharp and can and will stare into your soul, even if you’re holding a gun and she’s got a sword in her hands like it’s more effective than a firearm. John’s pretty sure a gun’s better than a sword, at least. He’s pretty positive. He also didn’t think a runner like him would get tangled into a situation involving the underground royalty of Aveyond, though, so he’s not optimistic.

Rhen idly reaches up and brushes her braid over her shoulder. Her eyes match her hair. She swears the color the natural to anyone who will listen, which usually means that person will be dead in the next thirty seconds since they probably insinuated otherwise and no one insults Rhen Pendragon and gets away scot-free.

“Don’t you know, love?” Rhen says with a disarming smile, and John tries very hard to pretend his hands aren’t shaking. The smile widens to disturbing proportions as she purrs, “You should’ve kept your back to a wall.”

John has a second to process this before something slams into the back of his skull. His gun fires without him meaning to – but Rhen has already sidestepped, flipping the blade in her hand so it rests across her shoulders as she approaches his prone figure. The cement feels cool against his face despite a piece of gravel digging into his cheek.

“Sleep tight,” says a different voice, this one distinctly male and accented in a way that screams _rich_ , and John’s last thoughts are _I am never going to trust Marge again_ before a heel digs into his temple and he’s gone.

* * *

“You know,” Rhen says to him later, John’s body thrown over her shoulders like a rag doll, his pistol tucked into her belt, “That last part was a bit unnecessary.”

Lars grunts and forces a hand through disheveled green hair and says, “What, like you weren’t milking it out either?”

Her elbow connects with his stomach; he doesn’t even flinch. They both know it means _I love you_.

* * *

Lars comes from money. John can tell by the way he walks. And also by the pompous staff he carries around, not because he needs it to move around but because it happens to be his weapon of choice in most circumstances. His mood is reflected by the color of the orb at its top, and, currently, John wakes up to see that it is a hazy, swirling red. It is at odds with his impeccable, form-fitting suit, John notes as his eyes travel from the polished loafers to the green gaze that regard him with something akin to disdain.

“Finally awake,” he says.

“Yep,” John says, popping the ‘p’ without quite thinking about it. He’s gonna die, might as well make the most of his time left.

“You don’t seem too concerned.”

“Trust me, my panic level is maxing out as we speak,” John says listlessly. Lars’s eyebrow goes up a hair. “Anything I can do for you before I’m dead?”

He’s in a nice apartment building, it looks like – maybe a penthouse, considering the view from the window to his left. The room is spacious and the furniture is modern as all get out, though it appears the hard wood chair he’s in is reserved for special guests such as himself. A bit further beyond, to the left of stairs going down somewhere, in the kitchenette, he can see Rhen nursing a glass of what looks like whiskey, wearing a short cream dress that shows off a lot of very nice leg. Or it would, at least, if there wasn’t a pretty little handgun strapped to one of her thighs.

“We’re not going to kill you,” Lars says with a condescending laugh. John idly tests the strength of his bonds and regrets his decision immediately: they’d used wire to cuff him. They were not messing around.

“Oh?”

“Pirate John, you’re called? Came out of nowhere from South Isle, quickest runner on the streets.” Lars taps his left eye. “Nice eyepatch, by the way. – In actuality, we’d like to hire you out.”

John blinks. Once, twice.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten something in my ear,” John says, hunching in on himself. His heart’s already fluttering at a concerning pace, likely at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings.

“Really,” Lars says.

“Did you say you wanted _my_ help?”

“I’m not going to repeat myself. Are you in?”

“Yeah, I mean, anything that keeps me alive, right?” John says instantly and god, why can’t he keep his mouth shut as Lars smiles a small, dangerous smile. He swallows and flexes his fingers, wishing his bravado translated to at least one iota of courage. “Can you untie me? I think I’ve lost circulation in my hands.”

* * *

John’s just freshened up in the bathroom and he walks out to see Lars pulling Rhen to him, her hips aligning with his as his hand squeezes her waist, him leaning down so that their lips almost touch as they murmur to each other, eyes half-lidded and smiles lazy and sultry all at once. John retreats to the bathroom again immediately afterwards; his new bosses flirting it up is not something he needs to see.

* * *

“That totally gave him the wrong idea,” Rhen slurs, stretching the _totally_ out with a grin, pecking his cheek before settling her head against Lars’s shoulder.

“S’the point, isn’t it?” Lars says, absently running his hand up and down her arm. “Keep the attention on us so it stays off everyone else.”

Rhen snorts, an inelegant sound. “If it weren’t for us, Edward would be dead.”

“Yup.”

“God, he’s so cute and oblivious and dumb as rocks. Stupid royalty. I love him.” She smiles up at him, pupils blown wide. “I love you.”

“Save it for your man, Pendragon,” Lars says, resting his forehead against hers. “Dameon’s already jealous enough as it is.”

“As if I’d let him touch me.”

“Not like I do, hm?”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“And you’re drunk _and_ higher than the Empire State, so shut up and put the bottle down.”

* * *

The next time John pokes his head out of the bathroom, fifteen minutes later, Rhen’s making beached whale sounds on the couch while Lars watches him tiptoe about like he’s a cat with tape on his paws.

“Siddown,” Lars drawls. The smirk on his face widens as John scrambles to do just that, taking the armchair and scooting as far away from Rhen’s prone figure as he can. Will the man address the elephant in the room? “We’ve heard that you’re competent with a rapier.” No. No, he will not.

“I fenced sabre when I was younger,” John says with a nod. No point in lying, no point in trying to get answers when he probably won’t get them ever. “I’m a bit rusty.”

Lars reaches behind him and holds up a blade, wrapped in a black cloth that is fortunately thick enough to save John from a cut as it’s tossed to him. John catches it, unwinds the cloth, and inhales sharply when he sees it.

“Mythril,” he says, his voice soft with wonder. That’s why it feels too light.

“Lucky you,” Lars says, clearly bored. “Consider it your first paycheck. We move out tonight.”

“Shit,” Rhen moans, drawing the word out to an obscene length. Lars absently pats her head. “God, I’m dying. I thought I told you not to let me do this ever again.”

“Look who’s flirting now, Peta,” Lars responds with no change in expression.

“ _Fuck._ Only for you.”

“Uh-huh.” Pause. When Lars starts speaking again, John doesn’t realize he’s being talked at for a few seconds, but when he focuses in what he missed doesn’t seem too important – “So the end plan is that we’re going in to steal some coke from under Ahriman’s nose. We’ll cover you while you get in and get out. Take anything that might be a lead back to the big man himself. Clear?”

“As crystal,” John says dutifully, while his mind plays _shit_ on repeat. If they run into Marge, he’s more than dead.

As if reading his mind, Lars adds, “Oh, and don’t worry about Mad Marge. We’ve paid her off. She won’t be looking for you.”

Rhen is giving him a sugar-sweet smile from behind red eyes; Lars has his phone out now and is flicking his thumb across the screen. It occurs to John with no small sense of trepidation that being strangled to death by his former boss might be a better fate than the one he’s currently facing.

* * *

“Wait, you – aren’t you going to get hit by gunshots? Wait, what the fuck – ”

Lars waves his staff around, lips moving soundlessly, and Rhen pays John absolutely no heed as she charges forward with sword in one hand, gun in the other. Lars follows her without missing a beat, easily stepping in her exact shadow, and after a few moments John feels something settle into his skin – not stinging, per se, but _present_ , the hairs of the back of his neck rising as he gapes after his employers’ advancing forms.

“Move it or lose it, dumbass!” Rhen barks over her shoulder, her sword stabbing deep into one man’s gut while she fires her pistol blindly with the other hand.

Goddammit, no one had told him Lars was a _mage_. (The staff should have been a dead giveaway – he’d beat himself up over that later.) John doesn't know what kind of shield Lars had put on him but it has to be a good one, considering Rhen is brushing off bullets like rain on a windshield, and so he takes in a breath, tightens his grip on his rapier, and darts forward, quick and unseen.

One of the men he’s rapidly approaching notices him and John holds his breath as he continues forward, sword outstretched. He needn’t have worried; he falters a bit when a bullet zips through the man’s skull and he fell, and in his ear John hears an unfamiliar voice say softly, “Got you covered, pirate.”

Goddammit, no one told him they had _backup_. John decides he hates his new employers, as the two other people openly firing at him while going to cover are shot down in quick succession. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and John mutters his thanks as he slips past the warehouse door and presses himself flat against the wall.

It’s been a long time since he’s worked with a competent sniper, but he’s too irritated about being left in the dark to care about it much. He grits his teeth and slinks back when a group of people rush past him, intent on the gunfire outside, and then continues on.

* * *

“Status,” Rhen’s voice says in his ear.

“All visible targets neutralized,” a soft female voice answers. “Ean is on his way to extract me.”

“Good job, Iya. Lars?”

“Approaching pickup zone.”

“Pirate?”

“About fifteen feet from what I think is the main office,” John says, barely a whisper. His feet are silent on the concrete ground. “Can you cause a commotion that will draw the guards out?”

“Affirmative,” Rhen says, and not five seconds later a massive explosion rocks the world around him. John lets out the tiniest whimpers of fear he can manage as he dodges around falling crates, and he almost gets crushed by a bookshelf for his trouble. Still, it works, the last few guards wavering around the room fanning out to investigate, and John sneaks past them and enters the small office with no trouble.

* * *

John just about screams when a huge wolf races up to him as soon as he exits out the back of the building, tongue lolling and eyes narrowed to slits, clutching the corkboard he’s scavenged from the office like a shield even as presumably Iya says to him through comm, soft-spoken and reassuring, “That’s Ean. He’ll carry you out.”

John is so far past questioning anything that he complies without a word. A giant tame wolf? He can deal with that, as he jumps up onto the wolf’s back, twisting his fingers into the beast’s fur as the wolf lunges forward. He’s not aware he’s letting out a steady stream of profanity as he goes until Lars says disdainfully, “Your comm’s still on,” and then he bites his tongue so hard it bleeds, cursing his luck.

Later they’ll be back at the hideout – the penthouse – with the corkboard between them, and that giant wolf will melt into a thin-boned brown-haired elf in front of his eyes, give him a smile, and say, “I’m Ean. Nice to meet you, John.”

John will slowly place his head in his hands, sit down, fall over on his side, curl up into a ball, and wonder what the fuck his life has become.

* * *

“So there wasn’t much I could pull from this, but – I think these are spots that were recently hit by Ahriman, which suggests he’s gathered some more daevas to work for him.” John indicates the red tacks on the corkboard, which has a giant map of Aveyond plastered on it, before poking at the singular yellow tack near the city’s center. “And this isn’t their headquarters; I think it was going to be their latest target before we interrupted them.”

“Ahriman wasn’t there, but there was a woman mage in the warehouse,” Iya says. Her hair is white and it glitters and her eyes are soft and so is her voice; it’s completely at odds with the very real sniper rifle she is meticulously cleaning in her lap, Ean sitting at her feet and handing to or taking parts from her as necessary. “She used the guards so I wouldn’t have a clear shot at her.’

“What kind of magic did she use?” Lars asks.

“Ice, primarily,” Ean answers, sharing a look that spoke volumes with Iya. “I was in pursuit and almost slipped onto an ice spike, at least.”

“Ah,” John says involuntarily. He clears his throat when four heads swivel to look at him. “Her.”

“Her,” Lars echoes, a question.

“Yes. I don’t know her real name, but if she’s working for Ahriman... well. This isn’t ideal.” John taps at his chin for a few moments, letting his brain meander its way through its thought process. It pays off, in the end, as he adds, “Indra is her most recent moniker.”

Rhen groans irritably. Lars pets through her hair absently; she’s lounging across the couch again, this time with her head in his lap.

“I take that to mean you’ve met her,” John says, mostly amused but also slightly terrified.

“She’s a menace,” Rhen grumbles, bringing a hand up to her face to examine her nails. She’d broken one in the raid and had refused Lars’s healing magic, preferring instead to wrap it in gauze that is as currently being bled through. “Stabbed Elini straight through the gut with an icicle.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot about that,” Lars murmurs as Ean’s lip twists into a grimace. Iya remains impassive, running a cloth down the length of her gun’s barrel.

“Elinidana'ter'Lithir de Aramati?” John asks, pronouncing the name perfectly and earning him more than a few impressed glances.

“You know her?” Rhen asks.

“Who doesn’t,” John mutters. “She tried dumping a love potion on me once.” Lars lets out a snicker and John hurriedly moves on. “Anyway, I know where Indra likes to hang out, if that’s any help.”

“Tomorrow,” Rhen says decisively, stretching her arms above her head as Lars leans back against the couch. “Where is it?”

“Snow Queen’s Palace.”

“Damn,” Ean says, smiling slightly and John would really like to know the story of how these innocent wide-eyed elves got involved in a scheme like this, “That’s the best bar in North Isle.”

“Be here by three tomorrow. We’ll go and stakeout until she gets there.” She makes slightly grabbing motions at Lars, who lets out a long-suffering sigh and picks her up bridal-style like she weighs nothing at all. “I’m goin’ to bed. John, you’re welcome to the couch if you need it.”

“Or you can stay with us,” Ean says as Iya nods beside him, both of them watching the numerous emotions struggling to show themselves at the same time on John’s face. “We have an apartment a few blocks away.”

* * *

In the end, John third-wheels with the elves because he doesn’t think Lars or Rhen like him that much and also too much PDA, and at least Ean is a good host and actually makes food as he and Iya chat.

“I have to ask,” John says just minutes into a dinner of what are apparently traditional elven rolls, “How did you get into this business? I haven’t seen any elves since – well, since I came this far north, actually.”

Iya lets out a delicate, tinkling laugh. Ean grins and says, “You heard about the revolution a few years back? With the Queen actually being a witch and all that way up north?”

“Of course,” John says, suddenly very able to see where this is going, so he says, “Let me guess, that was you?”

“Yes,” Iya says with a nod, a graceful smile on her face. John quietly reaches up to gently massage a temple. “Rhen contacted us a few months later and contracted us for work. We’ve been with them for about three years now.”

“Next thing you’ll be telling me prince Edward’s involved in this somehow,” John jokes.

Neither elf laughs. He looks between their somber faces and wants to stab himself in the foot.

* * *

“How confused do you think he is?” Rhen says, nestled against Lars’s side, head tucked beneath his chin.

“Confused enough,” Lars says without opening his eyes.

“He knows Elini.”

“He’s going to shit himself when he meets Boyle.”

“What about Stella?”

“Edward?”

“There’s no way he’s going to believe Prince Edward is involved with us,” Rhen scoffs.

“Yeah? He didn’t miss the blood bags we keep in the fridge. Galahad’s not going to be happy about that.” Lars dragged the covers up further over them both. “Who cares what he thinks. Can we sleep now?”

Rhen conceded with an unintelligible noise, shifting so her back was pressed to his chest. He pressed his cheek absently against hers, briefly, before leaning back, and let her warmth and presence lull him to sleep.

* * *

“No, they aren’t ‘doing it’,” Mel says, using finger quotes. Beside her, Stella is laughing and John feels faintly foolish, though not enough to regret asking. “They’re, like, platonic life partners.”

“So they’re married,” John surmises.

“Sure, if that makes it easier for your brain to comprehend,” Mel drawls. John frowns.

“They sleep together, live together, occasionally kiss each other, but that’s it,” Edward – prince Edward! – tells him, smiling slightly. “It’s a deep friendship. Not so much a romance.”

“That’s weird.”

“And you’re a narrow-minded old coot,” Mel says, grinning. Edward whacks her shoulder with a dismayed sound, which Mel ignores. “But you’ve got the skills, so I guess I can’t kill you.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Stella says with an apologetic smile, giving his shoulder an absentminded pat. “Mel can be abrasive, but she means well.”

“Hey!”

“Noted,” John says with a nod, as Mel huffs and Edward laughs. He never would have guessed that behind Rhen and Lars was an entire network of people, of all shapes and forms – from elves to vampires to royalty to street rats. It’s incredible, really, especially when it really comes down to it and he sees that these same people would lay down their lives for the cause.

“It’s disgraceful,” Boyle (Boyle the _Horrible_ , the villain who came closest to ruling the world and then turned on his tail and became a _hero_ , what the actual _hell_ ) says with a dramatic sigh, hours later as John tries not to put his foot in his mouth. “But I can’t argue with Fang, and Fang likes them.”

Fang, an enormous gray wolf, barks affirmative. John feels faintly queasy.

* * *

They find Indra at the Snow Queen’s Palace, leaning over to speak with the bartender as she flips long white hair over a slender shoulder. John blends in perfectly – he cleans up very well, thank you very much – while further away, Mel leans in a dark corner and watches, eyes unblinking; near the bar is Boyle himself with a witch named Ingrid on his arm, easily joking with one of the other patrons.

The plan is thus: Rhen and Lars, easily recognizable by anyone who matters, sit in a club across the way, watching for their prey to leave the building. Iya is positioned a block down, lying in wait in case a quick bullet to the head is necessary; Ean is near her, posing as a beggar on the streets. Mel is reporting directly to Rhen and Lars via comm while Boyle and Ingrid work their respective magic (intimidation and potions, in this case) in order to milk as much knowledge from the customers as they can. He’s also been told that there’s a vampire around here somewhere, but so far he hasn’t seen them.

John, meanwhile, remains close but not too close to Indra herself. He had shaved earlier, meaning it’s doubtful he’ll be recognized, and for the moment he slips closer to Mel and the two of them pretend they are chatting each other up. It feels extremely wrong to put a hand on her hip and lean in close as if they are flirting, but it helps that Mel is incredible with insults and they grow continuously more creative as more rich patrons filter into the bar. He doesn’t have to fake the laughs, at least, and it leaves them both with time to listen in on Indra’s conversation.

Indra, as it turns out, is not quiet. John learns more about her personal life than he ever wanted to know, but he also hears a fair deal of useful tidbits – such as the fact that there are a limited number of daevas and that Ahriman is still up and kicking (he’s not sure where). Additionally, Ahriman recently donated a generous sum of money to a potential mayoral candidate named Nanghaithya. (He had to look that name up later to figure out how to spell it.) Over all: a lot of information, but not very useful without context.

Then Indra moves towards the back of the bar, Mel speaks into her comm, and then she and John pay their tab and walk out arm-in-arm, discussing the merits of rapiers versus daggers with their heads close together, faces flushed with alcohol. A few minutes later, Rhen’s voice crackles through and she says, “Well, that’s one. Who’s next?”

John gives the name, and, you know, he’s beginning to think he can get used to this ruthless efficiency.

* * *

“That was sloppy footwork back there and you know it,” Lars argues back at the penthouse, his legs propped up in Rhen’s lap on the couch, John leaning on the back of the armchair Iya is currently seated in.

“You know, it’s funny,” Rhen says, falsely thoughtful, “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

Lars leans over and drops a quick kiss to her temple. “I know.”

“Don’t touch me, freak.”

“As if you could ever just drop me and leave, moron.”

“Fuck you for being right. Where’s Dameon?”

 _Who’s Dameon?_ John mouths to Iya. The elf blinks and exchanges a swift glance with Ean before mouthing back _later_ , to which John nods.

Presently Lars has flipped out a cellphone and hands it to Rhen, which she takes and puts to her ear after tapping on it for a few seconds. Silence reigns in the penthouse as everyone holds their breath for some reason, and John follows suit because he has no idea what the hell is going on but that’s nothing new.

“He’s not answering,” Rhen announces an eternity later, to which there is a collective sigh of... relief? Rhen’s half-amused, half-scolding look sweeps across the room – starting at far left with Boyle and ending far right with Te’ijal (who is a _vampire_ , what the _fuck_ , at least he knows what the blood bags in the fridge are for) – and then she sighs and says, “Okay, so this Nanghaithya guy. Details.”

Everyone looks to John, eerily synchronized, and he clears his throat as he straightens up.

“He’s, ah, running for mayor in the upcoming election. He’s a powerful sorcerer that specializes in wind magic, as far as I can tell – he, like, constantly has a breeze swirling around him, meaning Iya might not be able to have a clear shot.” Iya makes a soft noise of assent, gently tapping Ean’s side with her foot as he sits on the floor in front of her. “He’s not particularly eloquent so I doubt he’ll gain any traction, but Ahriman is basically funding his campaign, so better safe than sorry.”

“He must be busy with all of that mayor stuff,” Mel says from her perch on the kitchen counter. Edward and Stella lean forward on either side of her. “He probably has a schedule. We’ll be able to know where he’ll be.”

John nods. “Not to mention tracking his finances might give us a few leads.”

“Good,” Rhen says. “Mel, I trust you and your contacts to get ahold of that schedule somehow. Boyle, Ingrid – figure out if any of your friends know of any more daevas. Iya, lie low; there was a wanted ad out for you again the other day. Te’ijal, leave Galahad alone for once and please, for the love of anything, go make sure your brother isn’t stirring up trouble again.” The vampire clicks her tongue at that but says nothing. “Lars, you’re with John. Dig up any information you can about the daevas.”

“And where are you going?” Lars asks, eyebrow raised.

Rhen lifts her chin. “I’m going to look for Dameon.”

* * *

Iya and Ean are cooking in the penthouse’s kitchen when John asks Lars, “Who’s Dameon?”

It’s been a few hours since they were last here – mostly they’d gone their separate ways to ask their own personal contacts, meeting up once or twice an hour to discuss what they had. (They’d also discovered they had more than a few overlaps when it came to informants, something that had Lars visibly impressed.) Now they are back in the penthouse, which is what John calls it now even if it’s been fondly dubbed HQ by everyone else in Rhen and Lars’s group, and the most pressing question is, of course, the identity of Rhen’s friend. Best friend. Suitor?

A dark expression crosses Lars’s face, come and gone like a passing cloud. He doesn’t answer right away, shifting from his spot on the couch to lay across the entire frame. His laptop screen, from what John can see, is all small black text on white background.

“The Sun Druid,” Lars says at length. His voice is low, carrying easily but likely inaudible to the elves under Iya’s humming.

“ _The_ Sun Druid,” John says. He tries really hard to be surprised but, at this point, he can’t even find the strength to do much beyond sigh. “Okay. I mean, he’s so reclusive, so I guess it’s not a stretch.”

Lars grunts.

“You don’t seem to like him,” John says, delicately.

“I don’t trust him for a variety of reasons. It is what it is.”

“Why not?”

Lars gives him a Look. John raises an eyebrow back at him.

“You’ll see for yourself when you meet him,” Lars answers at last.

It’s loud enough that the elves hear, and Ean makes a sound of agreement as Iya abruptly stops humming.

* * *

“Ah, hello, you must be – ”

John bursts out laughing. He doesn’t recall what happens next, not exactly, but the next thing he knows he’s been shoved into the bathroom with the door slammed shut and Ean is patting his back as he works through his hysterics.

“The hair gets people every time,” Ean says gravely when he’s been reduced to sputtering, and the elf’s smirk is humongous as John looks over at him and cracks up again.

* * *

By the time John’s finally recovered, Rhen, Lars, Iya, Mel and presumably Dameon have convened in the common area of the penthouse. John and Ean enter a little too loudly, joking with each other about the merits of headbands, but they both obediently fall silent when Rhen glares daggers at both of them.

“John, Dameon Maurva,” Lars drones, gesturing to the half-bald half-not man in flowing robes. Were it not for the tiniest quirk of his lip, John would have thought the sorcerer found the whole thing terribly boring. “Dameon, Pirate John, our newest runner.”

“Sorry about earlier,” John says, realizing a beat too late that he doesn’t sound apologetic at all, if Dameon’s expression is anything to go by. Mel snorts as he fumbles, “I, uh, wasn’t expecting what. You, uh – ” _Nope nope nope_ – “Never mind.”

Rhen eyes him with a ghost of a grin. John smiles nonchalantly at the druid, as brilliantly and charming as he can; it looks as fake as it feels, if Iya’s soft titters mean anything.

“I see,” Dameon says, eyes unblinking. “Good to meet you, Pirate John.”

“Just John’s fine.”

“Very well, John.” The way Dameon says his name is pretty much a guarantee that John will never get along with him at any point in time. John has no time to dwell on it, however, because the druid goes on, “I feel as though we have met prior to this.”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” John says, because he definitely would have remembered. “I’ve spent most of my time on South Isle, so unless you’re from that part of the city, we’ve never crossed paths.”

Dameon doesn’t answer, instead eyeing him with a strange, curious intensity. John meets his gaze for as long as he dares, only looking away when Lars sighs loudly through his nose and says, “Children, take your petty arguments elsewhere while the adults discuss business, yes?”

“Of course,” Dameon demurs. John quashes an abrupt urge to strangle the man and Ean gives his shoulder an absentminded pat.

“All right,” Rhen says, clapping her hands together once. “Boyle and Myst couldn’t make it, something about Ingrid needing new ingredients for a potion, but otherwise, Lars reports success and Iya and Ean are here, obviously. That means we’ll start with John.”

“Start with Lars.”

“Don’t get fresh,” Rhen says, tiny grin dropping, and Lars gives John an easy smirk. “Seniority trumps all and we’re not beyond kicking you off the team. You don’t want to know what that involves.”

“Right, right, yep,” John says, more terrified than embarrassed even as Dameon covers a smile with his hand. “Okay, so, uh. They’re six of them. Seven. Maybe. I only got the name of one other daeva and it’ll take a while before I can go rooting around for another one without suspicion. His name is Aesma.”

Lars’s eyebrow goes up a fraction, as it does. He doesn’t say anything, which John takes as his cue to continue.

“He’s, ah, he’s a runner of some kind, I think? A literal runner, I mean. Very fast on his feet, has a black belt in like three different kinds of martial arts, won a number of competitions, run a couple of marathons, uh. Someone pegged his height at like six foot five or something and he’s been a hitman for a really long time now.” John scratches his chin and makes a mental note to grow out his beard before trimming. “I don’t know how long he’s been working for Ahriman, but I’ve got some intel on finances and it looks like he’s contracted out by the big guy himself rather than just hired for hits. Not sure how helpful that is, though.”

“Anything else?” Rhen asks when John lapses into a thoughtful silence.

“He teaches a class on Wednesdays at three in a studio in East Isle.”

“Great. Good job, John.” John merely nods and Rhen turns to Lars. “How about you, cabbage head?”

Lars looks entirely disinterested as he examines his nails. “The information is sensitive. I’d rather run it by you first before moving forward.”

Rhen blinks and exchanges a swift glance with the sorcerer, so swift John almost misses it, and then she nods and says, “All right. In that case, thank you, John. Lars, give me a second, I need to speak to Dameon.”

The dismissal is clear. John eyes Lars with slight interest and says nothing.

* * *

“There’s a mole.”

Rhen watches Lars pace. The path in their shared bedroom is so well-trodden the carpet is slightly worn, and currently his fingers are at his chin, thoughtful and twitchy, and she counts the beats between his steps in her mind.

“Any idea who it is?” she asks after a moment.

“I’ve eliminated a number of people based on conjecture, but even that can’t be absolute,” Lars answers. His stride slows slightly, almost unnoticeable, before resuming its previous pace. “The list right now is Myst, Nicholas, Edward, John and,” and here he hesitates and very carefully does not look at her, “Dameon.”

She processes this for a few moments.

“Why Dameon?” she says at last. “Of the ones you listed, he’s been with us the longest.”

“I’ve been tracking him since last month,” Lars says, stopping his pacing to instead shift uncomfortably in place; “He’s been spending a lot of time in South Isle, most of it in Demon Cave, and I haven’t heard from the druid there for a number of months.”

“The druid’s gone missing?”

“The Queen still owes us some favors, but there’s only so much she can do without getting noticed, and Elini is too well-known to really dig in. Still. I asked John to look into Dameon’s finances the other day, he’ll probably pull me aside when I leave this room.” Lars peers at her and Rhen knows him well enough to recognize the sharp worry in his eyes. “I was expecting a more adverse reaction.”

“I’ve had my suspicions. He’s a good friend, in most respects, and I can tell when he’s lying to me.” Lars huffs in amusement – he never has and never will let her forget her disastrous relationship with Dameon way back when – and she sends him a mock-scowl as she says, “He’s been wearing more and more expensive clothes lately. Designer.”

“Ean has volunteered to keep an eye on him, if you want to go ahead with that.”

“I’ll talk to him first, you know how Ean just charges into things without thinking,” Rhen says, eyes narrowed. “If you were right about Dameon for all these years, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

“How you flirt,” Lars deadpans as she stands.

“Love you too,” she says as she goes to the door, smiling when he stops her midstride to kiss her cheek, quick and gentle.

* * *

John waves Lars to him as soon as he exits the bedroom and Lars is quick to come over, John already pulling out his phone to show him pictures of certain incriminating finance reports. No words are exchanged; instead, John watches pensively as Lars flicks through his gallery, and in the end Lars makes eye contact with Rhen from across the room and she comes over, resting her chin on Lars’s shoulder as she idly nurses ale and reads alongside him.

Dameon’s still around, seated on the couch and doing something intently on his tablet; further down, Iya is curled up against Ean with his fingers stroking her hair as they quietly discuss something, and in the kitchenette Mel stuffs her face with bread and berries as she peruses a mess of documents in front of her on the counter. Boyle’s due for a visit later, as are Edward and someone named Myst, and John makes a mental note to tidy up the corner of the main room he’s claimed as his own before they do. Currently, his covers are strewn about freely and the stock of his pistol is just visible from beneath his pillow. (His sword, of course, is on his person. He’s not stupid.)

“Thanks, John,” Rhen says, jolting him from his musings, and he takes his proffered phone back from Lars. “I have to ask, how did you find these things?”

John shrugs. He’s not giving away all of his trade secrets, so all he says is “You wanted the quickest runner, you got him. I have my ways.”

“Fair enough.”

“You should take on an apprentice,” Lars says, which is as close a compliment as John will ever get, and John gives the sorcerer a tentative smile as he goes on, “We could always use more people like you.”

“The world only needs one of me,” John quips back without thinking about it (again). He almost screams in fear when Lars’s lip quirks upward in amusement but manages to hold it in.

* * *

Eliminating Aesma turns out to be easier than John had thought it would be: Iya sets up outside the daeva’s studio, waits and waits and waits with Ean at her side, and late evening she returns with her sniper rifle dismantled in a duffel bag and says, “He’s dead,” and then, “I’m hungry.”

John looks up from his phone, briefly mourns the separation from Angry Birds, and gets up to find her something in the refrigerator. He’s coming to like the elves’ place very much: the fridge is always stocked, it’s warm in cold weather and cool in hot weather, and the two of them have always been gracious and generous and even let him claim their couch as his bed even if usually sticks around in the penthouse. He hands Ean the leftover spring rolls he’d made yesterday, and Iya tears into the first one with a bite so vicious he almost thinks he imagined it.

“Anything new?” her male counterpart inquires politely, as Iya continues to noisily and maybe angrily stuff her face.

“Mel’s taking some of her friends to pay Nanghaithya a visit,” John answers with a shrug. “I think there’ll be some interesting news articles tomorrow. After he’s dead, there’s some guy named Zarich, and then another guy named Tawrich, some woman named Saurva, and then Agas.” He frowns and repeats quietly, “Agas,” because that’s a strangely short and simple name compared to all of the others.

“Is that all of them?” Ean asks, interested.

“As far as I know, and let me tell you, I had to pull in a lot of favors to get them. This better be damn worth it.”

“Rhen will be delighted,” Iya manages around her mouthful. “These are delicious, John, thank you.”

“Least I can do for mooching off of you rent-free.” John snatches his phone from off the counter and slips it into his pocket before Ean can make a grab for it, no doubt to try his hand at Angry Birds. “Speaking of which, anything you want to eat tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to cook for us,” Ean says with a smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I know I have my corner in Rhen’s penthouse, but I can tell you first-hand that staying out of their hair makes life easier on me.” Iya laughs at that and John grins. “Although I guess I should make my way over there and tell them the news.”

“It’s late. It can wait one night,” Ean says. “Plus you were probably out and about all day, and taxis are expensive.”

John knocks three times on one of the wooden cupboards. Both elves purse their lips, amused, and say nothing.

* * *

“Mel got Nanghaithya yesterday and Myst is out hunting Tawrich with Fang and Ean,” Rhen says, leaning back on the couch with her hands folded over her stomach. John, who still hasn’t met Myst, wonders feebly if the girl can also transform into a wolf and whether this means he should be worrying about werewolves. “That leaves us with – what were their names again?”

“Agas, Saurva, and Zarich,” John supplies, broken from his stupor.

“Agas is a problem,” Lars says from the kitchenette, absently sipping from his glass of red wine like the rich prat he was. “I don’t know how you got his name, but I’ve sent out feelers and so far everything I’ve gotten is about how powerful he is. Zarich is a dark mage and I think he kind of teleports from place to place, and Saurva – I have no idea where she is. I haven’t ever heard her name before this, either.”

“Well done, John.”

“All this praise and I might just get overconfident,” John drawls, ducking under the bottle Rhen throws at him. It shatters upon impact with the ground, staining the nice black carpet with metal polisher, and he straightens with a wince. “That wasn’t my fault, for the record.”

Rhen eyes the wireless mouse she’s using for her computer and agrees, “That wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made.”

“One of many,” Lars says.

Rhen chucks the wireless mouse at him. It hits him square on the nose and he doesn’t even flinch.

* * *

Myst, as it turns out, is a free-spirited girl with white hair and pale skin and small, sharp features. John meets her when she enters the penthouse with Boyle in tow, followed closely by Ean, Fang, and Ingrid, and she makes a beeline right for him, gets close to his face, and says, “Are you missing an eye?”

It’s a sensitive subject for him in some ways, but her curiosity is so genuine he can’t help but give her a small smirk. “It’s just a lot of scar tissue underneath,” he confirms.

“Wow,” she breathes, and he startles when she reaches up a hand and touches the eyepatch directly. Her fingers are cool to the touch and glide strangely smooth against his five o’clock shadow. “You must have a lot of stories to tell.”

John thinks back to the prostitute ring he’d broken up in South Isle, once, and says, “Depends on your point of view. Can you not touch me, please?”

“Sorry,” Myst says, not sounding very sorry at all, and at this point Boyle is close enough to grab her arm and gently pull her away. She turns to the man with a pout of her face, to which the man makes one back, to which Ingrid sighs at the both of them and waves a hand. John is left staring at two frogs, both of which Ingrid picks up and puts on her shoulders.

“How did the hunting go?” Rhen asks loudly over the chatter.

“He’s dead,” Ean says with a cheerful smile. “Fang got him with a bite to the throat. It was impressive, really.”

Fang barks. Boyle the frog shifts uneasily on Ingrid’s shoulder, clearly not intent on getting near Fang’s mouth; Myst, meanwhile, has already hopped onto the back of the couch, next to Rhen, seemingly unperturbed with this change of events.

“Good,” Lars says, eyes closed. His head rests on Rhen’s lap, though she ignores him in favor of the bottle of whiskey she’s been sipping at for the past few hours. “We go after Zarich tonight, if any of you are up for it.”

“We can’t just send out squads?” John inquires.

“Ahriman’s catching on,” Rhen says, shaking her head. “He’s increased security for all of his remaining daevas, of that much we can be certain. It’d be better to take it carefully now.”

John looks over at the corkboard he’d stolen from Ahriman’s office all those weeks ago. It’s been updated in a way that suggests organized chaos, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach he notices that Ahriman has been gaining territory. Even without his daevas, his organized crime far outreach Rhen and Lars, and with a start he realizes that Mad Marge is nowhere to be found.

“Oh,” Lars says suddenly, “Rhen, I have confirmation on what we spoke about earlier.”

“About?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

Rhen chews her lower lip. “Let’s hear it,” she says at last.

“Elini spotted him going into the back room of Demon Cave the other night and Te’ijal managed to listen in. She got a recording that I’ve listened to – here.” Lars pulls out his phone and a pair of earbuds, which Rhen takes as he enters in his passcode and swipes around for a bit. The room waits in anticipatory silence as she listens; John in particular watches Rhen’s expression, which goes from indifferent to slowly, ever so slowly, dark and stormy anger.

The atmosphere grows heavier and heavier as Rhen pulls the earbuds out and places them in Lars’s waiting palm, and Ean shifting almost inaudibly from foot-to-food is the only sound that permeates the silence.

“So,” Myst says, a little too cheerful to be predatory but somehow making it sound predatory anyway, “Did you all hear that the Sun Druid’s been missing for a long time now?”

* * *

“Zarich’s moving out. He’s got a black cloak and glowing red eyes and is every emo boy’s dream original character.” John watches the flowing black fabric for a bit longer, leaning against the wall of the alley and, for all intents and purposes, looking suspicious as hell, and then says, “Looks like he’s on his way to East Isle.”

“John, have I ever told you that you’d make a great mugger?” Mel says through the comm even though she’s standing right next to him.

“Every day, squirt,” John drawls, grinning when she lets out a bark of a laugh. Beside the elves, Mel was by far his favorite person, even if she was at least ten years his junior; she, out of everyone else, really did start as a street rat, and once they started swapping stories, their friendship was sealed. It helps that they make a convincing couple whenever they need to pose as one, such as now. “I’ll join you on your next escapade.”

“I’ll hold you to that, old man.”

“He’s going towards the bridge to East Isle,” Iya says, interrupting their conversation with a soft clearing of her throat. “Rhen, do you have eyes on him?”

“Yeah. He’s being tailed by about four people. – Three now.”

“Two,” Lars adds. “Iya?”

A few seconds of static. “One.” Pause. “Zero. He’s speeding up.”

“Myst?”

“Reducing visibility,” Myst answers, which John assumes to mean she’s doing some mist-related thing because apt naming and all that. “Approaching target.”

“Be careful.”

“Uh-huh,” Myst says absentmindedly, followed shortly by a yelp, and then there’s the sound of footsteps and she says breathlessly, “Backup would be nice.”

“Got it,” John says as Mel peels away from him to start moving. He follows on her tail.

“John, Mel, cover his west exit. Ean, are you in position?”

“Yep, waiting across the bridge. Hi’beru is also ready.”

“Hold him, Myst. Iya, try to get a clear shot.”

“I can’t, not with the fog in the way.”

Rhen growls in frustration and snaps, “Lars and I will be there in a few seconds.”

From then on, the comm is cut off and silent. John doesn’t quite struggle to keep up with Mel, but they are moving speedily and, by the time they arrive, Myst is shrouding herself in mist as Zarich throws a bolt of dark magic at her, dodging Rhen’s sword as Lars mouths words to himself and waves his staff around. They waste no time: John unsheathes his sword, Mel pulls out a dagger, and they jump in side-by-side and join Rhen in her close combat attacks.

Something hits him in the head.

The next thing he knows, someone’s screaming at him, and then he passes out.

* * *

He wakes up.

He’s tied to a chair.

“Not again,” he groans, and then something whacks his head and he’s out like a light.

* * *

He wakes up and this time keeps his eyes closed and his breathing steady. He’s still tied to the chair and _wow_ , his head.

A few minutes of silence pass by. He cracks open an eyelid. The room he’s in is dark and empty, so he opens his eyes fully and absorbs his surroundings. It smells rancid and his mouse tastes coppery. His head hurts. His headache is worse, like a huge bell being continuously rung in his head by some asshole with a giant hammer, and he flicks his tongue over his lips, noting the split lip before actually feeling it.

 _If this plays out like a movie,_ John thinks, _the villain will come soon, now that I’ve woken up._

John waits.

And waits.

And waits.

 _I’m never trusting movies again_ , John thinks with a sigh.

* * *

When someone finally comes to check on him or whatever, John’s dozed off, neck lolling over his chest at a somewhat painful angle – and then he snaps back into awareness with a jolt when a cold hand touches his face, poking directly on a cut he hadn’t even noticed until this very moment. _John,_ he tells himself sternly, _now’s the time to put that training to use and keep your goddamn mouth shut._

“You’re Ahriman,” John says instead and proceeds to mentally slap himself about five times in the face.

“I am Ahriman,” Ahriman says, and John can just see the sickly smile under a dark hood. Eurgh. Man needs to brush his teeth, his breath reeks of rot and death. “And you are John.”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’. Why does he do this to himself?

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ again to hide the fact his heart is hammering against his ribs. His wrists hurt and so does his head.

Ahriman studies him, expression unreadable. John stares back, unwilling to back down, and immediately regrets it because Ahriman takes it for impudence (it was) and pain bucks through suddenly and violently throughout his entire body, dark and cold and just for a second, and John can hardly breathe save for choked, haggard gasps.

“You cannot win,” Ahriman says, and John has just enough strength to give a weak snarl before pain rips through him again and he screams, short and loud before cutting himself off. “You were foolish to try.”

This time John does not speak up. Ahriman releases the tight grip on his face – when he had he done that? – and departs swiftly and almost silently. As soon as the door closes, John lets out an involuntary sob and slouches in his chair, trying not to actually cry.

He did _not_ sign up for this.

* * *

A daeva comes in – Agas, John would guess – every now and then to shove food at him, though he remains tied up and has to lean over to kind of, like, mash his face into the tray on his lap and eat. He gives up all traces of cleanliness as time goes by, and, try as he might, he never once manages to snatch a key from the guard’s belt.

(He does manage to tear the cloak with his teeth, once. He lost a tooth for that, and he keeps the fabric as a trophy of sorts.)

Ahriman does not return. Eventually, the daeva stops coming, too, and John tells time by the growling of his stomach as he works at the ropes binding his wrist, slowly but surely rubbing his skin raw as he attempts to free himself.

He needn’t have bothered. An eternity later – an eternity of dozing off, waking with a start, waiting in the darkness, dozing off again – the door slams open, John yelps because his head still hurts and the light doesn’t help, and then he has to hold back tears as he slams his eyelids shut because Mel is standing in the doorway with a furious and dangerous look in her eye and he can hear Rhen shout, “In and out, people, let’s move!”

“Is John alive?” Lars calls as Mel flashes behind him and cuts the bonds.

“Barely,” Mel answers, pulling him roughly to his feet, and when she sees he is in no state to walk, she huffs and neatly throws him over her petite shoulder. He almost throws up, that’s how painful it is. “Cover me, Ean – Hi’beru, healing would be great!”

There’s an unearthly growl for an answer, following by sweet, cold relief through his body that sets him to sobbing, he hadn’t realized how deeply Ahriman’s magic had burned him until it was gone, and then a soft hand is on his head and an accented voice, presumably Hi’beru, says, “The damage is internal, for the most part. I will do what I can, but Dameon should take a look at him.”

“Out of question,” Mel says snappishly, to which Hi’beru sighs. “John, can you walk? You weigh a lot for a skinny old coot.”

“Shut the hell up,” John grumbles, voice hoarse and raspy, squeezing his closed eyes even more tightly shut when a pulse of red-hot pain shoots through his skull. He barely manages to add, “Also, no.”

“Let me,” Rhen says, which is how he finds himself transferred over in a fireman’s carry to the pack leader herself. He has barely any time to orient himself with this new situation when she yells, “Burn this place down!”

“Oh, with _pleasure_ ,” Lars snarls from somewhere nearby, and heat springs to life a moment after an explosion slams against John’s ears. He groans unintentionally; his head is killing him, perhaps literally. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Hi’beru ends up being a man with flowing robes and a gentle smile and wonderful, soft, smooth hands that John watches with absolute fascination as he pours healing magic into his body. John wants to marry him when he makes the headache go away, which he says out loud, to which Hi’beru laughs and says, “I’m flattered, but no. My apologies.”

“Fine,” John slurs, and then Hi’beru steps away, still smiling.

“He should be fine, but he should rest for the next few days. I was not able to completely take care of the scarring inside of him, not without the proper tome at least.”

“Thanks, Hi’beru,” that’s Rhen, “We appreciate it.”

“Of course. Call upon me when you need to, and I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

John struggles to keep himself awake as his eyes slide shut, heavy and oppressing and warm. Someone settles a blanket over him; Mel, probably, because she says, “You’re a wreck, you crusty barnacle,” and he tries to answer but finds himself too tired to actually do so. Instead he gives a deep sigh and resigns himself to passing out. He figures he deserves a break.

* * *

He wakes up and realizes belatedly that he’s in the penthouse, on the couch, wrapped in enough blankets that he’d call it a blanket burrito. It’s dark and quiet save for the hum of appliances, but he’s too wired to go to sleep; it takes him a bit to fight through the fabric trapping him in place, but once he does, he finds his feet relatively steady and so weaves his way to the kitchen.

Generally he doesn’t drink too much, mostly because he used to but then he had a sip of Marge’s ale and that made him quit so fast he might as well have gotten whiplash – but there had to be something good around here. Except he’s not sure which drinks are reserved for Rhen, so maybe not, and he instead digs through the freezer and finds a solitary popsicle that’s a beautiful artificial blue. _Close enough_ , he thinks, closing the door and removing the wrapper with a flick of a knife.

He settles in front of the wide windows as he eats, savoring the cold on his tongue. Aveyond is lit up below, cars coming and going and lights flickering on and off in the many surrounding buildings. He can’t see any stars and he can barely see the moon, so bad is the light pollution; something he misses about his home so far south of here, he supposes.

He should sleep, he knows.

He doesn’t.

* * *

Rhen keeps him off the ground team for over a week, during which they rob a bank and kill some high-up politician or whatever. John is grateful for the first few days, but he quickly grows restless as the sense of fragility slowly fades away and he allows himself to bend over and do other basic things that flex his abdominal muscles. Myst tends to keep him company – he hadn’t known it at the time, obviously, but she, too, had been captured and subsequently tortured – and they spend a lot of time teaching other card games from their respective homes and not talking about what happened to them.

(Myst is a mist sprite. All John can ask is how Rhen knows these people.)

Usually in the evenings Lars returns and occasionally joins them in their strange, disjointed musings, teaching them how to swear in his home language, going over very basic magic with them (John has no magical talent whatsoever, unfortunately), and attempting to learn how to use a blade (Myst’s, because hers are smaller and better suited for a person who gets backed into a corner, which is the only reason a sorcerer would use a blade anyway). This is also when John learns that Rhen is a swordsinger, which is why she uses a sword over a gun most of the time.

“You guys are terrible at getting the new guys up to speed,” John tells Lars upon this new nugget of information.

“You’re the first one we actively recruited,” Lars answers; “Most of the time people approach us or we find them to hire them out, like Iya and Ean. Rhen wanted you, though, so we had to kidnap you and everything. We forgot that you had never once interacted with us beforehand.”

“Slick.”

Lars’s smiles are uncommon and they are sharp and suit him perfectly when they appear. “What can I say? Rhen and I are perfect.”

Myst makes a noise of disagreement, giggling when Lars makes a halfhearted swipe at her, and this is how Rhen sees them when she enters: Lars and Myst tussling together on the couch as John quietly swaps out the cards in his hand for better ones in the deck. Rhen lifts an eyebrow at him but otherwise doesn’t comment, instead sitting down to watch as Lars and Myst finally resume the game and John wipes the floor with them.

“How are you feeling?” Rhen asks John.

“Pretty good,” he answers, basking in his victory as Myst and Lars sulk. “Still not quite sure what happened, but yeah, I’m feeling good.”

“We underestimated Zarich,” Rhen says, short and simple. “We only just managed to escape alive after he teleported you and Myst away, and it took all of us to take on the stronghold when Ingrid followed the teleportation trail for almost a week. You’re lucky you’re alive.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It was my fault,” Rhen says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I led you all into a trap and you almost paid for my mistake with your life. I understand if you want to leave.”

John blinks at her. Rhen meets his eyes with an unwavering lavender stare.

“It’s a surprise, I know,” Lars says dryly as the silence stretches on, “But the problem with Rhen is that she cares too much. You really are free to go if you so choose.”

* * *

Two weeks later, late in the evening, John returns to the penthouse bleeding from one leg. Ean and Iya hobble in after him with Mel draped along Ean’s back, and Rhen and Lars look up from the couch with mirrored expressions of confusion.

John walks up to them and drops the rolled-up map onto Rhen’s lap. She unfurls it slowly and peers closely at it, Lars leaning against her so he could look as well. Iya throws John a roll of bandages and he quickly sets to work on his leg as his bosses read through what he had given them.

“You could’ve died,” Rhen says at last, rolling up the map again.

“That’s the thing with runners,” John says with a wry grin. “You can’t catch us the same way twice.”

“We thought you’d left,” Lars says without inflection.

“Yes, and I apologize for the duplicity. It was important for Ahriman to think I was no longer an active threat to them.”

Rhen says, “You’ve been gone for almost two weeks.”

“My bad,” Ean pipes up. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to find a place to transform in public during the day. Recon took a long time.”

“Hey, on the bright side, we know where the others are,” John says with a grin. “You’re welcome. Can I get a pay raise?”

“We’re not paying you,” Lars retorts, and it’s strange to see such a genuine smile on his face as he presses a kiss to Rhen’s jaw. “Just take it, Rhen. You’re always telling us to get results, now we have them.”

“I hate liars,” Rhen says, staring John straight on.

“There are a lot of us in this line of business.”

“You don’t lie to me. Not again.”

This, John knows, is the make-it-or-break-it point. She’s just issued a direct order to him; should he refuse, he could kiss consistent shelter, food, and friendship goodbye, and he sure as hell isn’t going back to Marge after experiencing this.

“Pirate’s honor,” John says, smirking. He’d made his decision the second they’d saved his life.

Rhen snorts at that and gets to her feet, bringing Lars up with her. “Good. Call everyone in. We’re doing this tonight.”

* * *

“I wonder how he got Mel, Ean and Iya to agree to help him,” Lars muses.

“He and Mel are practically attached at the hip,” Rhen points out.

“And he typically stays with the elves – ah. A stupid question, I suppose.”

“No shortage of those, coming from you.”

“Hmph. So shallow, Peta.”

“You’ll always be my favorite, cabbage head. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

* * *

“All that’s left is Saurva, Zarich, and Agas before we can get to Ahriman,” Rhen says grimly.

A gunshot. “Just Zarich and Agas now,” Iya says. “Extraction, please. Zarich may have spotted me.”

“No, he definitely spotted us,” Mel says, followed shortly by rustling cloth. “Extraction would be great.”

“Ean’s preoccupied. Myst, this one’s on you.”

“Roger-dodger!”

John hefts his rapier with a sharp exhalation of breath. He’s with Rhen and Lars and Boyle and Ingrid, Myst having just darted off to help Iya and Mel, while Hi’beru, Ean, Edward and Stella push through from the opposite side of the building.

“Edward, status,” Rhen barks.

“Engaging hostiles at back entrance – Ean and Stella are holding them off for now, but I should really be – ” a clang of swords – “Sorry, gotta run – ”

“Copy that.” Her hand returns to her side and she addresses them with a slight turn of her head. “I’ll take point; Lars, on my six. Boyle and Ingrid, stay close. John, watch our backs.”

“As if anyone could stop us,” Boyle says with a grin, to which Ingrid snorts but, at the very least, doesn’t dispute. “After you, Rhen.”

Rhen gives them all a feral grin, sword spinning neat and pretty in her palm, and when Lars knocks the glass doors in with a roar of wind and Rhen charges, John can’t hold back a whoop.

* * *

All of Ahriman's henchmen are dead the moment Rhen bursts into the room. John hasn’t even made it past the door when he walks in and sees her flicking blood off of her blade, multiple heads neatly separated from their necks.

“And to think I was going to turn her into a snake,” Ingrid says with an exaggerated sigh, dissipating the magic around her wand with a casual-looking flick. “Ah, well, can’t win every time.”

“Rhen, come in,” Stella’s voice says over comm.

“I’m here,” their fearless leader answers immediately, hand flashing up to her ear. “What’s the problem?”

“Um, Hi’beru’s having a hard time walking and he dropped his book of healing somewhere? We can’t find it and Agas has us pinned from almost all sides.” Stella’s little giggle is weak and out-of-place and transmits her distress better than anything she’s saying. “A little backup would be nice.”

“Boyle, Ingrid,” Rhen begins, and the older couple is already out the door. “Iya, sitrep.”

“A little busy,” Iya answers after a moment, breathless. There’s a gunshot. “Mel, Myst and I are on our way. Where do you want us?”

“Join Ean. Keep them off of us, eliminate Agas. Everyone _be careful_.”

“Of course. Good hunting.” Myst contributes to this with a roar – what, is she a bear now and not a wolf? – and then the line goes quiet. Rhen breathes in quietly; Lars puts a hand on her shoulder. John stays quiet.

“This is personal,” she says at last. “Let’s go.”

“You still want me around?” John inquires in what he hopes in a non-confrontational voice.

“I want Myst here, too, just so he can see what happens when he hurts one of us – but beggars can’t be choosers.” Rhen lets out a wordless growl. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”

“After you,” Lars says with a glance over at John, who nods, and he tightens his grip on his mythril rapier and follows in silence.

* * *

“Where’s Dameon?” he asks at some point, as they travel through the dark hallways.

He never does get an answer.

* * *

Seeing Ahriman triggers a whole bunch of feelings. None of them are good. In fact, John pretty much has a panic attack as soon as he sees the edge of the black cloak, his vision tunneling dark at the edges and his breath coming out in short, shallow gasps. He keeps his grip on his weapon because even in an outright freak-out he’s got _training_ , all right, but he knows that this was a terrible idea, that thinking he’d gotten through his captivity in Ahriman’s claws without scars was a terrible mistake, that this terrible place is where he’s going to die.

Lars murmurs softly to him, something John doesn’t quite pick up over the ringing in his ears. He can’t swallow. His heart is racing. He does not want to be here, he does not want to move, he wants to run out of the building, he – he –

“Is it all right if I put a hand on your shoulder?”

He shakes his head frantically without thinking about it, and the voice – Lars? – says, “Okay. Listen to me. You’re fine. I’m going to start counting. Try to breathe with the numbers. I’ll count up to two and then back down.” There’s a pause, and then he says, surprisingly gentle, “One.”

John sucks in on a breath and tries, tries, tries to hold it.

“Two.”

He lets it out in one mighty exhalation.

“One.” A beat. “Two.” Another beat. “One.” A beat. “Two.”

Eventually John can match the rhythm and Lars starts counting up to three, then four, then six, and then John finally has it under control and he swipes a hand at the perspiration on his forehead. Everything around him comes into sudden focus, then: Rhen engaging Ahriman on her own, snarling as the man repels her with magic, and it occurs to John that Lars had taken time out of helping his partner to help _him_ through something as stupid and dumb as –

“It’s not stupid or dumb,” Lars says and dammit, he’d been speaking his thoughts out loud. “Panic attacks can be dangerous. Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” John says breathlessly, “I mean, no, but I’ll do what I can.”

“That won’t be much, I’m afraid,” a new voice says behind them, and only John’s instincts save him from being clobbered in the head once again.

* * *

John doesn’t think. John just moves, and in this case, he darts close to Dameon who’s waving his own weird staff around as he casts a healing spell on Ahriman. Rhen is so focused on the fight she doesn’t even acknowledge the newcomer, and after a short hesitation Lars joins her in her battle, leaving John alone with the Sun Druid. He can handle this. He can handle a pretentious man with a terrible haircut.

“Really, I’m surprised you stuck with them for so long,” Dameon drawls, sidestepping around John’s lunge, parrying the lightning-quick slash and sending him back a few steps. “You are nothing but a toy to them, I hope you understand.”

“If you believe that, it’s no wonder Rhen barely gives you time of day,” John answers, moving his tongue around, trying to get moisture to his dry throat. He barely dodges a burst of light that leaves the tiles smoldering, going in close again and ducking under Dameon’s guard to stab at his torso. No use; the blade is reflected and doesn’t sink nearly as deep as it could have, maybe a single centimeter before John’s repelled. Dameon heals himself without even a passing glance at his chest.

“You can’t win,” Dameon tells him. “It’s foolish of you to try.”

“Funny,” John says, “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

There’s a growl from behind the man. Dameon barely has time to turn before being barreled over by a bear with a pure white coat, teeth bared and blood splattered across her muzzle; John takes advantage of the distraction to slash across the Sun Druid’s chest. Dameon’s eyes flash as he twists fluidly from under the bear’s weight, busily casting a healing spell on himself as he two-steps back, staff in a white-knuckled grip and eyes half-lidded in concentration.

“Fancy seeing you here,” John jokes.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Myst’s voice answers from the bear’s mouth, which would be disconcerting if he hadn’t mentally prepped himself for it. A cooling mist settles around his body and John grins when some of his fatigue melts away. “Shall we dance, pirate?”

“Lead on, princess.”

* * *

Eventually, they do manage to incapacitate Dameon with a sound knock to the temple. (John takes credit for that one, and Myst giggles at his smug smirk.) From there, Myst keeps an eye on Dameon as John rejoins the fight with Rhen and Lars, the former of which lagging slightly as Lars mutters and slams his staff into the ground and occasionally reads directly out of a tome with a dark, eerie symbol of the cover.

Ahriman’s expecting him when he jumps in next to Rhen, joining her swordplay with the ease of long practice, and one look from red eyes is enough to make John falter and send him sprawling to the ground. Myst’s healing fog comes to him almost immediately, a silent show of solidarity and support, and so John grits his teeth and gets up and lunges forward, neatly ducking under Rhen’s slash as he drives his sword up and _in_. He meets no resistance but Ahriman lets out a small hiss; he’ll take the victories when he can.

“Circle,” Rhen says, hardly above a whisper, lips barely moving, and John rolls around to Ahriman’s front and she sidesteps to his back and they launch a full assault, swords a blur as they fall into old patterns, excessive repetitions of training from years ago, and Ahriman lets out an enraged sound that John would tentatively call a blend between a whisper, a screech and a keen, and then him and Rhen and Lars are blown back a few meters and black flames lick at the base of Ahriman’s cloak.

“Now that’s just bullshit,” John grumbles. Rhen laughs, short and curt, and Lars merely sweeps his own blue cloak more tightly around himself and plants both his feet and his staff. Myst lets out a whoop from where she’s crouched, one hand covering Dameon’s forehead and presumably keeping him unconscious – and then Rhen’s gone, launched herself forward with lightning speed, and the fighting resumes anew.

* * *

“Building’s clear. We’re moving towards your location.”

“Copy that, Edward. Iya?”

“Zarich’s dead, Agas’s dead, Ean’s injured. Hi’beru will be moving towards your location after he’s finished preliminary healing.”

“Good,” Rhen says as she pulls herself off of the ground, wiping blood away from her nose. John doesn’t let himself get distracted, parrying Ahriman’s staff away with his rapier and counterattacking with a quick stab, and Lars backs him up with a burst of ice piercing through Ahriman’s feet. “Is Mel with you?”

“She already moved up after gutting Zarich,” Iya answers. “She said something about Stella and Edward being useless without her, I think.”

“It’s true,” Mel says, crackly and static-y, and then she’s gone again. Edward and Stella do not deign her with an answer, which either proves her point or shows that they are busy.

Speaking of busy, John goes flying and turns it into a backflip to land on his feet. Lars waves a hand at him to renew his Gauss shield, returning John’s muttered thanks with a nod, and then Rhen does some sort of complex dance thing and Ahriman _screams_ , an inhuman sound that will probably haunt his dreams for a very long time, and then the man falls and doesn’t get up. For good measure, though, Rhen stalks forward and stabs him in the chest, and then in the stomach, and then in the neck, and then in the chest again, and –

“Um,” John says when she doesn’t stop.

“Like she said,” Lars says, sweeping forward. “It’s personal.”

She only stops when Lars drapes a heavy arm over hers, pinning them loosely to her side. Then her sword drops from her hands and she sinks to her knees, drawing in deep, gasping breaths. It’s dead silent when she starts sobbing.

* * *

This is how everyone else in their ragtag squad sees their leader when they arrive a few minutes later: kneeling on the ground, bloodied hands on her face, pressed into Lars’s chest as he rubs circles into her back.

It’s... fitting, somehow, that this is how it ends.

* * *

It’s all over the news the next day: AHRIMAN DEAD, or AHRIMAN FORCED OUT OF POWER – PERMANENTLY, so on and what have you. John feels tired more than anything else, especially after he and Mel hit the town and get completely and utterly wasted before stumbling back to the penthouse, leaning on each other and giggling like schoolgirls.

Dameon’s tied to the chair when they get there. John finds this hilarious and collapses on the floor, laughing so hard it tugs at his pulled shoulder, and Mel soon joins him because she certainly can’t stand on her own, and Dameon glares at them under his mop of hair as Rhen and Lars regard them with amusement.

“This was supposed to be professional,” Lars drawls after a moment, smooth and expressionless save for a tiny smirk (and he did those a lot, now that John knew how to look for them), and he and Mel babble apologies as they head towards the guest room, a temporary refuge until they could go back to the main common area. They both answer affirmative when Rhen shouts at them to drink water, and then “Aww, she really does care,” Mel slurs, and they fall forward on the bed and keep a respectful distance as they continue to talk about absolutely nothing in particular.

Mel’s at least ten years younger than him and also his best friend. It’s ridiculous, but it’s his life now and John honestly wouldn’t trade it for the world.

* * *

The next day John has an incredible headache and he has to drag Mel upstairs; he’s more of a lightweight than she is but she gets terrible hangovers and also terrible period cramps, which she complains about so much that he starts buying her chocolate when the day rolls around. (This is why they’re such great friends.) Dameon is still tied to the chair when they drag themselves up the stairs leading down to the guest room and to the kitchenette, though he appears to be dozing as they find the popsicles John’s been stocking the fridge with and eat like three of them apiece.

“Look at that,” Mel says after a while, gesturing to Dameon with an electric green popsicle. “Frickin’ mess.”

“Hot damn,” John echoes, setting them off on the giggle train again. It hurts his head but the popsicles taste and feel great on his tongue. “Wonder what Rhen’ll do to him.”

It’s weird that he’s just now realizing that Rhen is the leader; that it’s not Rhen-and-Lars as much as it is Rhen and Lars the Backup, and this is of course when Dameon startles awake, staring at them balefully as they eat their frozen treats.

“She’s a softie,” Mel says presently. “Ten bucks says she lets him go.”

“I won’t take you up on that.”

“You’re not too stupid for an old coot.”

“And you’re not too annoying for a know-it-all squirt.”

Some good-natured shoving is still happening when Rhen walks into the room, yawning widely and drowsily rubbing her eyes as Lars walks in after her, immaculate and perfectly awake as always. The two of them offer Mel and John a nod before going over to Dameon, and John chucks his popsicle stick into the trash with horrendous aim to Mel’s laughter.

“You’re free to go,” Rhen says curtly, and Mel shoots him a triumphant look as Lars waves a hand and undoes Dameon’s bonds.

The Sun Druid stands silently, shaking out his wrists and glowering at nothing in particular. He looks at Rhen and it looks like he’s about to say something; but then he changes his mind and he goes toward the door, jaw set and eyes cast to the floor.

He pauses at the doorway, though, turning slightly to say, “Perhaps I’ll see you around.”

Rhen doesn’t answer. After another few long seconds, Dameon leaves, and the door closes softly behind him. Mel and John do their best not to move, and even Lars seems to be waiting for whatever comes next.

Finally, she says, “There was a bank robbery in our district yesterday without our jurisdiction.”

And John watches Lars smile and say, “Then we better go do our jobs.”

**Author's Note:**

> John and Mel somehow ended up being bros while I was writing this and I now firmly believe that they would have been best friends if they’d been in the same universe.
> 
> Aveyond, dude. Made by a small independent game producer in RPG Maker; great stories, great characters, the whole nine yards. If you've never played the series, check it out [here](http://aveyond.com/); all of the games are definitely worth your time.


End file.
